Not even service to the Malwa, in the end. For the man had little choice in the matter. That the panther knew, with the knowledge of a great student of human affairs. History had condemned the man he hated, and his people, to vassalage. Their strength and skill in battle had recommended them to others. But they had not been strong enough, nor skilled enough, to decline the recommendation. And so, like many others before them—and others who would come after—they had bowed their stiff necks.
No, it was for no fault of the man himself that the panther hated him. He was not personally responsible, nor had he done anything himself. Rather the contrary, suspected the panther. The treasure of his soul was unharmed, either in body or in spirit, despite her long captivity. He knew, for he had seen her, from a distance. Seen her many times. Always in the company of him. Him, and his men.
She was not happy, of course. She was filled with her own hatred and despair, he knew. But he had also seen the way she looked at him. Not with friendship, no. But not with hatred, either, or with anger, or disgust, or contempt.
And the panther had also seen, from a distance, the way he looked at her. It was not easy to read his emotions. He had a face as hard as iron, as cold as a stone. But the panther understood the man.
In the end, perhaps, it was that understanding which filled the panther’s heart with such a pure fury, like the very flame of God’s heart. The panther hated him as he had never hated a man in his life. And knew, as well, that in another time, another place, another turn of the wheel, he would have treasured the man’s soul.
And then, suddenly, he was there. Emerging from the door of the palace, into the courtyard. After him filed the men under his command. The commander’s subordinates were all members of his own people. Of the same clan of that people, in fact, the panther had learned. A tightly-knit band of veteran soldiers, sworn to their leader by oath, by blood, and by blooded experience.
The panther recognized all of them. He knew every face. They were all there. The entire detachment.
The panther willed himself to absolute stillness. Perhaps—maybe. This might be the chance! Almost hopeless, true, but hope was gone in any event. Never had they allowed the princess to walk about in the courtyard. Her daily exercise was always limited to the garden perched atop the battlements of the palace. For the first time, the panther would only have to fight his way through them, on level ground.
He could not prevent the grimace. Only. With his bare hands. An assassin’s hands, true. But he did not even have to examine them to know what he would see. (Although he did, of course, for the thousandth time.) The discipline, the spotless helmets and armor, the well-oiled gleam of the swords and spear blades. Worst of all, the poise and confidence. The poise and confidence that comes only from battlefields mastered and survived.
Only. But—there would be no other chance. Slowly, imperceptibly, he gathered his haunches beneath him, preparing to spring. He would wait until the princess herself emerged and was well away from the door.
He waited. And waited. Grew puzzled.
What was happening?
He and his men were now clustered in the center of the courtyard. The door to the mansion had closed behind them. There was no sign of the princess.
The panther looked back to the men in the courtyard. There seemed to be some quarrel going on. He could not make out the voices, but it was obvious from the tone that they were raised in anger. And obvious, as well, from the expression on his face. A hard man to read, he was, but the panther had come to know that face. A deep, bitter rage roiled beneath its iron surface, suppressed by a lifetime’s harsh discipline.
No. Not a quarrel. They are not arguing amongst themselves. The anger is directed elsewhere. He spotted the glances directed toward the palace. Quick glares of fury.